The In'turns'
by xXBleachedSpartanXx
Summary: A blood feud between Vince McMahon and his WWE and an unknown force has unwittingly involved three young people into their affairs. With no other choice, these 3 must now make themselves useful in the midst of this and become WWE In'turns'.
1. Chapter 1

**The In'turns' – **Chapter One: The First Sacrifice

**Disclaimer:** I own the characters you are unfamiliar with. The situations documented are purely fictional (even though SummerSlam is actually going to be in New Jersey, last I checked). The others are all wrestlers from the WWE, and are own themselves, or are owned by Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

**Author's Note:** This is my first wrestling fan-fiction. I have no business starting this one when I have other stories that I should finish, but this idea has made me amused. Please continue reading, and give me your feedback. Thanks and enjoy the story!

"So, does everyone know the plan?"

A nasal, raspy voice inquired loudly to supposedly others in the close vicinity. The location could have been any thousands of places that were dank, dark, and bleak. No light was on, but the occupants of the room didn't seem to have any problems with that. A constant dripping sound echoed periodically, and the stressed hiss of some sort of steam producing machine snaked through the air, signifying that the happenings were taking place in some sort of boiler room of an establishment.

"Un. So, what is the magic number this time, then?" another person spoke, a gruff, sarcastic drawl swallowing the moment of silence that lapsed after the previous question. Shuffling sounded from all sorts of directions, hinting that more than just to inhabitants were in the room. Strange enough, you could not even hear the either hard or easy breathing of any of the people in the room.

"Three, only three this time. That number should signify a lot to McMahon, and if he is smart, he will take action this time around instead of hiding behind his little blood slaves again," the raspy one spoke with poison lacing his words, and he actually stopped to spit in distaste after he mentioned the name McMahon. It was only then that signs of others being in the room were apparent as they grunted in confirmation to the man's words. There were probably more than five people in there, but it was impossible to tell.

"You have your orders, then. Go, find three, it matters not who they are, and go for the kill. But leave our 'calling card' on each of their bodies." With that command, there were several clicks in unison, and then silence. All who were in there before had all left, but through where? No door was opened, and there were no windows.

-

The Continental Airlines Arena was only now starting to clear out after having one of its biggest events of the year finish with a bang. World Wrestling Entertainment had just successfully launched and ended Summerslam 2007. Fans exited the huge stadium animatedly, making their way through the huge car park back to their vehicles. The sky was showing signs of sunset, with hues of pink, purple, orange, and the like tinting the slightly cloudy sky. Kids still were wagging their self made signs and screaming their favorite wrestler's finishing moves. The more adult fans were either talking with their kids or chatting about how ridiculous the referee's call was on several matches to their friends they attended the event with. Some men popped the trunks of their cars and pulled out coolers that stored some drinks that they brought along. It was, after all, a summer night, and after coming out from a packed, but nicely air conditioned arena to the sweltering night heat of New Jersey, some choice people thought that they deserved a drink.

One young adult, a blonde boy clad in jeans and an authentic Undertaker t-shirt with glowing eyes, was actually going against the crowd that was pushing itself outside the arena. He was trying his best to be polite as he slinked his way through the crowd to get back inside. He was quite lucky that the security was too preoccupied with the exiting people to notice him slip back in.

"I can't believe this. I am _not_ losing the one thing that will be framed in my room and passed down to my kids when I'm gray and old. I better find it," Solaris muttered to himself in a frenzied manner as he finally made it through the swarm of patrons. He had lost a sign that he had slaved over bottles of glue, glitter, paint, and sheets of construction paper, like a little Kindergarten child. It was a masterpiece in itself, actually, for he had made an exact replica of his shirt in paper form, even painting the Undertaker's eyes with luminous paint so that whenever the lights went off in the stadium, especially for the Undertaker's entrance, a pair of pupiless white eyes shone eerily in the dark.

Before the Undertaker's match, he had passed by Solaris and his friends, and actually managed to sign the corner of the sign while the camera was off of him for a millisecond. Solaris' heart had stopped in his chest from pure rapture, and you would have thought that the young man would have held onto the sign for dear life after his idol had just signed it personally.

"Stupid, stupid. My god, am I stupid," Solaris kept that mantra going as he sprinted around several families and went down the stairwell labeled with the letter V. Each entrance sector to the seats in the arena was in alphabetical order, and his was in the ringside V section. Solaris' steps slowed down slightly when he saw the crewmen already packing away parts of the wrestling ring and announcer tables. He was still mesmerized by the place and how dazzling the atmosphere was in here not even a half hour ago. He shook his head, ruffling his locks of hair, and started hopping over empty seats as he immediately spotted his sign. He cradled it like a newborn child and clutched it to his heart for a few moments before he made a mad dash up the stairs once again to get out. He ignored the vibration of his cellphone that was in his jeans pocket. He knew it was his friends, probably wondering what was taking him so long.

Solaris got back to the ground level of the arena where the concession stands were. It was pretty abandoned by now, all the patrons have exited, and not even the workers were present. He didn't take much notice as he continued his sprint towards the main exit. His sneakered feet started to skid across the linoleum floor, as though he was skating.

He was unable to enjoy that fact for long, for a random arm came out of one of the doors he passed and clothes-lined him in the windpipe harshly. He choked on his saliva and crashed backwards to the ground below, his back and head colliding with it painfully. Before Solaris could register what had just transpired, he was grasped by the back of his t-shirt and dragged into the room against his will. The door shut behind him, and his azure eyes widened drastically when he realized that this wasn't some choreographed fight or plot.

He was really being abducted.

Solaris scrambled to his feet and wrenched himself out of the grasp of whoever it was that was assaulting him. Solaris blinked as the room looked like a mini storage room, with packages of popcorn and other concession items stored against the wall and on two metal shelves that were aligned parallel to each other. He looked around, and the one thing he was looking to face, his assailant, was no where to be found. How in the world did that work? The room was not too large, and the two towering shelves that held the food goods only made three aisles in between that he could possibly be hiding. Solaris cautiously walked around one of the shelves, but he was bouncing on the balls of his feet slightly.

'_This guy picked the wrong kid to mess with,'_ Solaris thought with a hint of annoyance. Solaris had always been picked on in school, so he started to take karate lessons from age twelve. He was a second degree black belt now, and he could take care of himself ever since. And, on top of that, he just came back from watching a wrestling match. If that didn't inspire him to try and go all 'pro-wrestler' on his opponent, nothing else would.

Solaris was cued by the sound of shifting and then a loud whistle, like when air was passing by your ears at a quick velocity. Solaris tensed his body, but bounced continuously on his feet as his attacker showed himself. If he hadn't been standing in front of the young man, Solaris would have said that the physical properties that this man had could not be physically possible for a human being.

The man before him was a towering mass of muscle, with at least a foot or two over the young man, who was about an inch over six feet. He wore a pair of black baggy track pants, and sneakers. He also had a twelve pack set of abs that were revealed with the lack of a shirt.

That's right. Solaris counted them. It was definitely a twelve-pack.

He was bald, and not a spec of facial hair either. His skin was a burnt sienna, and he glistened under the meager lighting of the room in the same sense the wrestlers had been earlier that day. Actually, he looked like a tanner, and quite larger Dave Bautista. The guy was walking briskly towards the younger boy, and his face was contorted into a sneer.

No smart words were exchanged.

No snarky challenge was issued.

It was just this mass of muscle against a lanky young man who dwarfed in comparison.

The man threw one mighty left jab towards Solaris, but the boy ducked beneath the blow. Unfortunately, the young man did not see the right hook coming towards him as he was dodging, and was hit square in the jaw.

The blow moved Solaris from his spot about a good half foot to the side, but still in front of his opponent. Solaris, from years of practice and sparring, was able to take the hit in full stride, and return the hit full force. He spun himself and pivoted his left foot, and swung his other foot high, heel first, into his opponent's collarbone. The man skid backwards a good two feet and grunted soundly, showing that the move had made some impact, but not quite the reaction Solaris was expecting.

Suddenly, the muscle-headed man launched himself forward towards Solaris again, and swiped his massive arms out at Solaris, but this time the boy evaded it almost gracefully as he sidestepped heavily to the right.

Solaris managed to grab one of the arms as it was recoiling, and had to wrap both his arms around this one muscle-bound appendage. He clutched it and aligned himself right in front of the startled man before tugging forward with all his might. He planted his legs to the ground but bent his knees and protruded his back. With amazing strength, Solaris managed to swing the man over his shoulder in a throw and crash the muscle head into one of the steel shelves of stuff.

Before Solaris could even recover from the amount of strength and stamina he lost just hoisting the monster of a man over him, his opponent, still on the ground, took his free hand and took hold of Solaris' neck in one swoop. His entire hand fit around the boy's neck, and that fact seemed to scare Solaris a lot more than anything else at the moment. The guy got up from his fall, and with speed so blurring, it made Solaris' head spin, he plowed the boy into the concrete wall at the back of the room.

Solaris heard several things simultaneously, not one of them good. He first heard his entire body, head first, connect with the cement in such a grievous way that the boy's eyes closed immediately, and yet he was still able to see flashes under his eyelids. He also heard the crack of the cement actually breaking and crumbling underneath his skull, which may have been cracked from such an impact. He then heard the most unpleasant chuckle he'd ever heard, and it could only be coming from his assailant. One last thing he heard was a small whimper, and it took several moments to realize that it had come from his own mouth.

Solaris willed himself to open his eyes, and was greeted by the scariest sight he had ever come across in his nineteen years of life. The man was not a pleasant sight for sore eyes as it was, but when the young boy pried his eyes open, he saw the burly man's face now contorted into an even deeper sneer, some of his facial features becoming more defined. And he revealed fangs that looked at least three inches long. How the hell did those things fit in his mouth without tearing apart his tongue? And why didn't he get them fixed? Dental isn't that expensive anymore.

It was something straight out of a 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' episode.

"You have the honor of being the first sacrificial lamb," the man finally spoke, surprisingly without a lisp. Solaris' eyes widened at the words and before he could protest, the man slammed his head to the right and dug his fangs into Solaris's neck without restraint. Solaris would've screamed, had it not been stuck in his now bitten throat. It felt like someone had stabbed him with a pitchfork, and started to suck out his vocal chords. The pain was immense, and it was dwarfing the fact that he also felt like he was getting weaker dramatically. The man applied an unbelievable amount of pressure onto his neck, pushing him harder into the concrete wall. Solaris gargled and choked on a mixture of blood and saliva.

Solaris' thought process was going into overdrive as he started to gain feeling in his limbs, just enough for one last fight. He was no sacrifice, certainly not a meal for some wannabe vampire, and if we went down, he was going to make sure the autopsy showed that he went down fighting. He pulled his feet, which felt akin to dead weight below his torso, up and planted a hard kick to the muscle bound man's abdomen. It seemed to be enough for the man to pry his fangs out of the poor boy's neck momentarily, but not enough force for him to let go.

"I can taste the fire in your blood. I won't let it go to waste," the vampire stated and had the audacity to lick his reddened lips. Solaris' legs dropped back down, and he realized absentmindedly that they didn't even reach the ground, and that he must be a foot off the ground. He spat out the blood that started to ooze from his lips, and his azure eyes started to roll from left to right, as though the room was spinning. He had no energy in him to even flail as the vampire wrestler hybrid went in for another bite.

'_Oh, damn, I'm gonna die.'_

But it never came.

The door of the supply room burst open as though it had been kicked off its hinges. Two silhouettes stood outside it for a brief moment before one of them came dashing towards Solaris and his attacker. The vampire had turned his head to the interruption, and thrown Solaris against the wall just in time to be plowed into the same concrete wall he had assaulted Solaris with before. The newcomer had went on his hands and knees suddenly, and the second silhouette suddenly sprinted forward through the short distance, pounced on the back of his friend, and with that new elevation, flew at the enemy with a heel kick to the face. The muscle-head's body actually lurched backwards and made a huge imprint in the concrete.

Solaris' eyes had finally closed after seeing his enemy getting his just desserts, and he slumped down against wall slowly until he was in a sloppy sitting position, his head lolled to the side where he was bitten viciously. He could hear the vampire assailant being pulled away from him and grunting in pain, somehow losing to whomever it was just made a grand entrance. It sounded like the two people, both male, were double-teaming the hell out of him, from the sound of clattering feet, and then crashing, probably into more of the supplies in the closet. Solaris was mildly aware of the vibrations on the floor as they guy was getting knocked down repeatedly.

After about a minute and half later, there was quiet, and Solaris had honestly thought that he had passed out. It was only until he could feel two pairs of hands underneath his skull and at the small of his back that he realized that he was still conscious. He attempted to move his head to sit forward, but he felt the most painful jolt ever from his neck down his spine. It made him wheeze and gasp from the shock, and he felt a little bit more blood seep past his lips.

"Woah, woah. Easy there. It's alright."

"Yeah, you're safe. Just take it easy."

Solaris found the two voices (that had a southern drawl to them) to be soothing, especially after getting assaulted by some unnamed mythical being-person-thingy, and then saved miraculously like something out of a horrible chick novel. He couldn't help but feel he heard the voices before, however, and it unnerved him slightly. Before he could put any more thought into that, however, he felt his chest suddenly tighten, and his heartbeat began to actually slow down.

Oh, crap, that can't be good.

"Matt, he's-"

"I know, Jeffro…"

"There has to be somethin' we can do. He doesn't deserve this. No one does."

"I know…"

Solaris tried to keep up with the conversation, but it was quite hard to do so when your body was shutting down permanently. They sounded genuinely concerned for his well being, but Solaris wasn't expecting that to do anything.

At least he wouldn't die alone. That had always been a fear of his ever since he could remember. He did have to wonder, however, if the two men before him could assist him in any way. If these two could help him, why were they hesitating? Did he have to beg, because he had no problem doing so to complete strangers.

He used most of the remaining strength he had left to peel his eyes open. Everything was drastically brighter than before, and his eyes were having a hard time focusing on the two shadows above him. They were kneeling on either side of him, and although he could barely make out their facial features, he could guess that there was concern etched on both of their faces. He could tell that they both had long locks of hair. The one on the left side of him seemed to have black hair. He couldn't quite determine what color the one on the right had, but he had to believe that his eyes were playing tricks on him, giving the mysterious man aqua and blonde hair. He couldn't make out what clothing the two were wearing, but it seemed hardly relevant at the moment. They both had semi-muscular builds, but the one on the right seemed lither, whereas the one on the left had more muscle on his upper body.

Wait a minute…this all seems familiar.

"Hey, kid, what's yah name?" The black haired one asked and cleared the bloodied blonde hair from Solaris' face. Solaris gasped harshly before forcing the words out. He felt he owed at least that to his saviors.

"So-Solaris. Montgomery." He could have sworn he saw the teal-haired one smile as he answered the question. Just in case, he returned a smile of his own, but a small dribble of blood leaked past his lips and cascaded down his chin. If he wasn't living the last moments of his life, he would have been embarrassed by that.

"Well, Solaris, we don't got much time, so we need to ask ya somethin'," the black haired man spoke, his voice low so for their ears only, but soothing nonetheless. The aqua-blonde to his right nodded, the smile still placed on his face. Solaris found it amusing that they would interrogate him in his final moments, but nonetheless, he made a small incline of his head to acknowledge them, shuddering at the sudden chills that rippled through his body. He felt so cold all of a sudden.

"We can help ya, but you'll hafta swear your life to us. We promise that no harm will come to ya ever again," the young man on the right said in an equally soothing voice. He ran his hand that was on Solaris' back in soft circles when he felt the dying boy's shudders.

Now, Solaris had thought these two men to be angels, with their convenient rescue, and their sympathy in his final minutes. But, did angels make you swear your life to them? Solaris wasn't much of a church boy, but that didn't quite sound right. And also, how was he to swear a life to them if he was about to lose it in about another couple minutes?

Solaris, unfortunately, was a very gullible boy. He had always been easy to fool or convince, and it had often been his downfall. He just never learned to stray away from that. So, his gullibility took over for him, and Solaris trusted his slowly beating heart to these two men…wait, what were their names again? He can't exactly swear his life to two guys without catching their names.

The dying young man reached his hands, which he had completely forgotten he even had since he barely felt them anymore, out to the two men on either side of him and cradled their cheeks limply in a gracious and polite gesture. While the black haired one looked genuinely surprised at the movement, the other grasped the boy's hand with his own and held it reassuringly.

"I…I swear…but, who a-are you guys?" Solaris felt that was a legitimate question, and he was surprised he could whisper that out without his windpipe collapsing on him. The two men beside him looked to each other for a fraction of a second, before looking back to Solaris. They both wore smiles so warming, so genuine, as if they were happy to be there for a complete stranger. They both carefully pulled Solaris from the wall and into both their arms simultaneously. Solaris' arms went down beside him, and his eyes widened for the third time that night as he felt himself being embraced warmly by the two.

"We're gettin' to that, Sol," the teal haired one whispered gently in his ear. Solaris shuddered for a completely different reason, now. Very few people used that nickname for Solaris because they just liked how his name sounded, but the choice few that did were all people he held close to his heart. Technically, the way how he was being cradled by the two young men in that instance, Solaris had to say he was being held close to _someone's_ heart.

Irony worked in mysterious ways.

"I, Matthew Moore Hardy…" the young man on the left murmured softly and clutched Solaris with one arm around his right side of his waist.

"And I, Jeffrey Nero Hardy," the man to his left said in a gentle tone, and his arm was one the left side of Solaris' waist.

"Take Solaris Montgomery as our charge, to protect him from further evils, under the divine name of Vincent Kennedy McMahon," the two finished the sentence together. Solaris' ears had only caught bits and pieces of that, and even so, it didn't matter because the poor boy's time against the clock was running out. He was losing consciousness and was no longer able to feel the warmth that the two men holding him were providing. He could feel his body's senses just turning off, like a distressed computer.

The last sensation he felt were two small pricks, one at each side of his neck, for a few moments. Solaris' eyes drifted close, and his mind, which was fuzzy for lack of a better term, was able to determine that both Matthew and Jeffrey were biting him, but not nearly had hard or painful as he had been manhandled before. Matthew even took care to bite him lower than where the first bite had taken place, as to not harm him any more.

'_How considerate of him…I guess.'_ Solaris internally mumbled, but he was too far gone to be sarcastic.

The draining feeling he had received from the first time came back this time, quicker, but he was less alarmed. With his body being drained of its blood, he was dying a less painful death than having to sit there and wait for his lungs to collapse and his heart to stop beating.

They were giving him a mercy killing, and Solaris was more than thankful for that.

As Solaris' heart gave its last few beats, his mind, still the ever-thinking organ, even near death, pieced together something that Solaris probably should have recognized earlier. He had the most amusing last thought before he died.

'_Matthew and Jeffrey Har…dy? Vincent McMahon? No. Way…'_

Jeff was the first to dislodge his fangs from the boy's neck. He lapped up the excess blood that trickled down his neck with his tongue, then pulled away slowly, still holding the boy. Matt followed suit a second later, even catching the small trail of blood that leaked from Solaris' lips, and the two took a moment to look at the blonde young man that they cradled in their arms.

His azure eyes were closed, and he looked as though he was sleeping peacefully, without a care in the world. His platinum blonde hair was mussed a bit, and bloodied on his left side from a head injury he obtained during his assault. His lips were tinted red and parted barely, as if he had taken a small gasp of air in the last second. His skin was slowly turning the color of ivory, but it was pale even before now. His body was thin, but not malnourished, and yet his calloused hands and slight muscles in his arms and feet told the two that he would have been able to take care of himself just fine…had it been any other type of assailant.

"He looks adorable, don't he?" Jeff spoke softly, smiling, but his eyes were a contrast as they looked sad gazing at the dead boy. He wished this fate on no one, but there was no turning back now. He only hoped they were doing the right thing. Jeff really did want to help the kid.

"Yeah, he does. Don't worry, we'll take care of him." Matt's voice was strong and reassuring, full of a promise that he was making to his brother, and to the new charge he was taking in. He, too, wanted to make sure nothing happened to Solaris ever again, and this was probably the only way to ensure that.

Matt took his hand from behind Solaris' head and gave a sharp bite to his wrist, immediately breaking skin and vein. Jeff did the same with his idle hand and they lowered Solaris down so that his head rested on Matt's knee carefully. They then tilted their bleeding wrists above Solaris' mouth and allowed the rivlets of crimson to slide over his and past his lips.

Unbeknownst to Solaris, and everyone else, two more were to reach a similar fate either at the same moment, or within that same hour.


	2. Chapter 2

**The In'turns' – **Chapter Two: Pitch Black

**Disclaimer:** I own the characters you are unfamiliar with (Solaris, OC2, OC3, and enemy wrestlers/assailants). The situations documented are purely fictional (even though SummerSlam '07 is actually going to be in New Jersey, last I checked). The others are all wrestlers from the WWE, and own themselves, or are owned by Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

**Author's Note:** This is my first wrestling fan-fiction. I have no business starting this one when I have other stories that I should finish, but this idea has made me amused. Please continue reading, and give me your feedback. Thanks and enjoy the story!

"Thank you so much, dad, thankyouthankyouthank-" the excited, feverish garble of thanks was cut off by thick, jovial laughter that was well heard through the receiving end of the cell phone. There was a pregnant pause, as the rest of the conversation that continued on the other end of the phone line could not be heard.

Amanda Jones sat on the hood of her car, clutching the small cellular phone in her right hand like a lifeline as she listened on to what her father was relaying to her. She had exited the Continental Airlines Arena about a half hour after Summerslam '07 had drawn to a close, and she was still in the parking lot after the festivities were over. She had watched the patrons leave the parking lot, but waited for the exiting traffic to dwindle down. She was in no particular rush to head home, which was on fifteen minutes away.

So the young woman opted to merely lounge on her back atop of her vehicle. It was a rather ordinary white Mitsubishi Lancer with a plain fin atop its trunk. Her friends always berated her for not 'pimping' her ride out to make it into the racing car that car models like that were normally used for, but she argued the point that she didn't even race in the first place.

"It was so cool, dad, you should have seen it! The guys were flying all over the place with their fancy maneuvers, and, and there was like every wrestler ever just duking it out, and, and," Amanda had to pause once again once she realized she was exaggerating and rambling like an idiot. Her father's laughter confirmed this as he found her childish manner so amusing. It was hard to believe that she was twenty one years old when she went on like this.

"And your friends, Shad and Jayson, or JTG as he goes by, they were hilarious. I know you don't like the whole 'black stereotype' thing, but if you look at it humoursly, it's actually really funny," She smiled as she halfheartedly listened to what her father protest and give his standpoint. She was still in a world of her own, the high of being at the Pay-Per-View event not yet thinning out in her pumping blood.

In all honesty, Amanda had not been an avid fan of wrestling. She didn't hate it, but she didn't check local listings to see when they'd come close to her home, either. Her mother had said that when Amanda was much younger, she had went through a phase of imitating Macho Man Randy Savage and the Undertaker, but that was it, and it was over as quickly as it had started.

It was only about a year ago, when she was home for summer break from college that she had been reintroduced to wrestling. Her younger cousin, Jasmine, visited her and immediately made a beeline for her television one Monday night, and sat glued to it for two hours, saying little to no words to anyone. Amanda grew curious and sat down beside her cousin to watch whatever it was that was so enthralling. After being given a brief rundown of the storyline from Jasmine, Amanda found the whole thing to be quite addicting, if not over the top in their acting. It was something she could overlook.

She started to watch RAW and Smackdown on a regular basis, even when she returned back to college. She rarely watched television since she went away to school, so on Mondays and Fridays, those in the dormitory residence hall knew the girl only when she was glued to the common room big screen TV, watching wrestling like a child.

Amanda had gradually become a devout fan, though she had to admit that there were still some wrestlers on the roster that she was unfamiliar with, most of them being some of the elder wrestlers from earlier generations. She respected them, nonetheless, but never quite had the time to look up each of their histories to see how they got to where they were now. She also did not know the actual names of most of the wrestlers, only their screen aliases. She never thought to actually find that out, since her chances of meeting any of them, let alone conversing with them on first name basis, seemed quite slim.

Of course, usually when someone says that, the complete opposite happens, as it does in this case.

It was by surprise and no mere act of God that one night, about several months prior, did she mention to her parents about the latest amusements that wrestling was indulging her in, when her father mentioned as a passing fancy that he had some friends that he'd met some time ago in Brooklyn that had went to pursue a dream of becoming wrestlers.

Amanda thought that her father may be tricking her, as he often did, but when he mentioned the name "Shad", she had to pause. That name was hard to come by as it was, and she was immediately convinced that he was not fibbing when she looked online and plugged in the name into the WWE website, only to come up with the tag team Cryme Tyme. Her father went on to say that he could probably get them to rustle up a ticket or two for one of their shows if she was so bent on going.

How was she to deny an offer like that?

And that brought her to the present. She had actually met the two men for a brief moment back stage, and they were exactly what she expected them to be: not like their on screen personas. They were glad that she was entertained by their hijinx, and she made a note not to mention that her father wasn't as big of a fan, but they knew. Shad had even divulged some funny and embarrassing stories that he remembered about Amanda's father, grinning deviously as he saw the girl's eyes light up with mischief. Nonetheless, they wished her family well and then left her with an autographed t-shirt with their animated selves on it. She had immediately put the shirt on over her tank top, and went through the entire day with it on.

"Oh, yeah, Shad and JTG said hi to you and Uncle Claude," Amanda mentioned absentmindedly as she held the slender phone in one hand, and the other was busy with a thin manila folder that was rather empty. It once held sheets of hand-drawn cartoonish versions of the more popular wrestling characters of today. Amanda was not an artist by any means (she was in school to be a pharmacist) but she would often find herself doodling during the nights wrestling came on, and she thought it would be cool to give the wrestlers corresponding drawings as a sign of her fandom and gratitude.

Corny, huh? Yeah, she thought so, too. Nonetheless, Amanda managed to give all but four of her illustrations out to their real life counterparts. She probably would just scan the remaining pictures and put them online.

Her train of thought derailed as a lukewarm summer breeze brushed past heavily and launched the manilla folder out of her hands and dragged it along the open parking lot. Amanda let out a soft curse and fell off the hood of the car, landing ungracefully on her left side, yet still managing to hold the cellphone to her ear.

"Dad, I'll call you right back. Bye," she concluded the conversation quickly before snapping the phone shut and tossing it beside the wheel of her car. She got back up on her feet and hoofed it towards the still drifting folder. Her mahogany cowboy boots clicked noisily on the charcoal tar as she dashed forward frantically.

The wind still hadn't lifted yet, and seemed to be dragging the folder, as well as Amanda, towards the left loading and docking side of the Continental Airlines Arena. It barely lit by tall lamp posts that were in the parking lot, and the huge garage doors were closed and locked from the outside. There were several empty trucks parked on the ramps to block passage.

Amanda finally reached out and snatched the folder with both hands and scowled at the inanimate object as though it had plotted against her. The wind abruptly disappeared, and the folder ceased its rustling. The woman blinked several times before she realized her surroundings. She honestly had no clue where she was, but she had to guess she wasn't too far from her car. She could just turn around and backtrack.

As she whipped herself about face, she almost collided with the midsections of two beings. She let out a small squeak before backpedaling a good yard from the two, leaving some distance between them. Her lower thigh came in contact with the back bumper of one of the parked trucks, warning her that she couldn't back up any more.

In front of Amanda were two ridiculously muscular men clad in identical sleeveless black body leotards. One man, the one on the right, was shorter, black, and had dreadlocks falling down to his shoulders like messy streamers. The other was at least a head and a half taller than his partner, and his hair was cropped in a tall buzz cut, contributing to his height. He reminded her heavily of the army guy from the Street Fighter video games. From the leotards, she wanted to say that they were wrestlers, but she had not seen their faces on any wrestling event ever. Not that she was an authority on who was in the WWE or anything. They stood side to side, and had a mirrored devilish grin chiseled on their faces. It was creeping Amanda out immediately.

"Are you alright, miss? Need help with somethin'?" the taller one had said in tone that sounded too mocking to be polite. His buddy nodded slightly, but kept his grin in place. Amanda clutched the manila folder in her hands unconsciously, and diverted her eyes away from the two, hoping to catch a glimpse of her car that she left not too long ago. It was strange that all of a sudden, she couldn't even see the parking lot, only the greenish ambience that was coming from the lot's lamp posts.

When she returned her eyes to the two, she almost jumped out of her skin at how quickly and quietly they closed the distance gap between them. They were officially breaching the personal space barrier.

"E-er, no, I'm good. Just going to head back to the lot and get out of here. Thank you, though," the woman managed to say without too much difficulty. She was anxious to just leave their presence, even if she had no clue where she was going. She made a movement to slip around them and go, but they immediately shifted to the same direction, continuing to block her path. Amanda cursed inwardly at her slow reaction, and at her bad luck.

"You're leavin' already? How 'bout we walk you to your car? Never know what kind of people are lurking around, waiting for an opportunity like this," the shorter male spoke in a surly tone that made Amanda suppress a gag. This situation was easily turning into a horrible Danielle Steel novel gone wrong.

"People like you, you mean?" Amanda quipped, but then realized a second too late that it wasn't really smart to taunt someone who looked and probably could rip you in half.

She looked to the two with an uneasy glare, hoping she wasn't showing how scared she actually was in her facial expression. All the while, she was steadfastly trying to figure out what she had with her that could be used as a weapon. She didn't have mace. She worked out occasionally, but never threw a punch in her life. She could try screaming, but she already knew her voice was almost gone from the cheering and yelling she had done earlier that day.

This wasn't looking promising.

The nameless men's grins somehow became wider, and their teeth were visible. No, those weren't exactly teeth, more like fangs. The two on their top row that were the largest were menacingly sharp, and overlapped the lower row of teeth. They were most likely wearing fake vampire teeth, but she honestly didn't want to find out.

In a desperate attempt to escape the two men who obviously meant ill will towards her, she suddenly rushed forward, trying to push through the small space between them. She didn't stand a chance, for they both caught her by the shoulders and hoisted her off the ground, before pushing her into the back of the truck forcefully. They practically knocked the wind out of her from that moment, and when she regained it, she emitted a cry as her back and her head collided with the metal. The folder fell to the ground, forgotten amongst the chaos.

The two made a team effort as they held their prey about two feet off the ground. Amanda stared down at them and tried her best to thrash around, but their combined grip on her was too much. All she could do was swing her feet in feeble, misplaced kicks that didn't even phase the two attackers.

"I don't got any money, so-" she was interrupted by a pair of dark chuckles coming from the men that pinned her.

"Who said we were looking for money?" the shorter one said, baring his fangs like a ferocious dog. His partner was still chortling, as though he had heard the world's funniest joke. Amanda didn't see anything funny of this situation, but when she planted the heel of her cowboy boot harshly into the laughing man, making his head reel back, she managed to get a chuckle in herself.

"Goddamn it! You bitch!"

"Now, why did you go on and do that? That just made him angry." His black friend said in a light, warning tone. The tone did not match the dark grin that was on his face. He suddenly released his grip from the girl, though the hold on her was still being applied by the other one that she had just got field goal kicked in the face. He hadn't relinquished his grasp on her shoulders during the blow.

Before she could retort that she didn't give a flying damn about the chump's feelings, she was pulled from the truck door by the recovering taller man. A millisecond later, he drove her body back into the door with enough force to actually dent the steel.

"Bitch…bitch, bitch, bitch," He said the word slowly deliberately as he repeated the motion over and over again. Amanda had let out a pitiful cry each time she felt her body slam into the vehicle. Her process of thought was completely obliterated as she was being jostled about. She couldn't hear anything except the sound of her heart pounding in her ear and a random ringing after the eighth smash.

"Dan, y'know, you need to stop doing that to all the marks that reject your ugly ass," the shorter companion said between breaths, since he was laughing hysterically at the gruesome scene. He was quite amused with the sick torture he and his teammate would issue out to their prey. Even now, he started to see a trail of blood being smeared on the truck door from the continuous impacts the girl's head made with the metal, and he couldn't help but be excited at the sight. The girl, at this point, had stopped her screams of pain, and was probably unconscious. That put a damper on plans a bit, since their specialty was to have their prey begging to die to escape the torture they were enduring.

"The whore deserved it, Pierce. Aw, damn it, she's out. It's no fun anymore," Dan said in a disheartened voice as he finally pulled the woman from the truck roughly. Her head was lolled to the side, and her medium length black hair was mussed about and covering her face like a canopy. There was no movement from her, but she was still alive.

That'd soon change.

Dan hefted her like a rag doll, hoisting most of her body to lean against him, and grabbed her left hand, lifting it up towards his mouth, but he paused and looked to the other as if he wanted his approval first.

"I marked the last one. She's all yours, man," Pierce said absentmindedly, giving his consent. Dan wasted not another second as he viciously tore his teeth into her wrist and sucked the blood that oozed out. There was not a peep that sounded from the knocked out woman as her attacker drank away at her blood sloppily, like a dog drinking lapping at a water dish.

Pierce watched in mild amusement, and tried to curb his own thirst. In an attempt to ignore the pleasant idea of drinking some of the chick's blood as well, he picked up the folder of drawings that the girl had been clutching before. He sifted through them, clicking his tongue in disgust. At least they were doing the world a favor by making sure she would never make another illustration.

But, when he came to one portrait that wasn't entirely toonish in appearance, he paused, and a shiver ran down his spine. It was a dark drawing, with a man in almost cowboy garb, shrouded in shadows, with only his snow white eyes being seen. The background of the picture was a deep dark violet, with blue-white streaks of lightning blasted behind the man.

Neither men paid attention to the thick fog rolling in that started to blanket the ground below.

They didn't notice how the lamp posts that illuminated the parking lot several meters away started to go out one by one, like a domino effect.

But, they did halt their actions when a crack of lightning tore through the heavens above them, and the thunder roared angrily. The area grew dark with the last lamp going out, cutting out any source of light in the vicinity. Another strike of lightning exploded in the sky, but gave a brief spark of light.

A silhouette of a single man stood stoically as the illumination from the lightning revealed him for a couple seconds. He was taller than Donny, and had a build of a powerhouse. He wore an ensemble of all black, from the sharp tipped cowboy hat atop his head, to the flowing trench coat that billowed in an invisible, haunting breeze. It was like the entire appearance of the form was in the shape of demonic cowboy.

Pierce and Dan jumped with a start at the appearance of another. Dan dropped the woman like a sack of potatoes, his concerns and attention on the eerie newcomer. Pierce let the illustration he was examining slip out of his fingers and land on the ground neatly, away from the three. They stood still, visibly shaken by the person who they knew was not an ally to them. Their eyes could not keep a lock on the person due to the unusually pitch blackness of the perimeter.

Another shock of lightning that burst through the sky gave a short flash of light, which was enough for the two men to scan the area once again. Even the parking lot lamps came back on. It was unnecessary, however, because their target had closed the gap between them and was looming over both men ominously. It was only then that they saw the only thing contrasting the being's black visage: his eyes, a chilling pupil less white that glowed inhumanly.

"Oh, shit."

With those eyes, he stared down the two foolhardy assailants, stealing their souls with a piercing glare.

With those black gloved hands, he grasped both of the men by their throats, each in one hand, and hoisted them up off their feet like fish.

With that strength of a ten man army, he crushed the windpipes and spines of the two with a clench of his hands before driving the men downwards to the ground below.

Pierce and Danny's bodies never made it to the ground, for they disintegrated into a cloud of ashes that wafted away in the drifting summer breeze.

With the two harassers gone, the lone man turned his attention to the young woman crumpled on the floor. He moved towards her, his steps were slow and calculating. For a moment, there was a pause as the mysterious man silently regarded the motionless youth below him. It wasn't until his eyes caught a glimpse of the stray illustration that was a good foot away from her, that he stiffened even more so than he already was.

There was a title at the bottom of the inked illustration, in a gothic font, that stood out in the other wise dark layout.

_The Undertaker: Lord of Darkness-Brother of Destruction_

In a swift movement, he scooped up the woman in massive arms, and stared down at the unconscious young adult without an ounce of expression. The girl's injured hand hung at her side, and her head rolled lifelessly onto the man's chest. The back of her scalp sullied his trench coat with still wet blood from obvious injuries to her cranium.

As the towering man left the premises with Amanda in tow, the distant tolls of a bell sounded clearly in the night.

It was an odd occurrence for the mere fact that there wasn't a church bell near the coliseum for twenty miles.


	3. Chapter 3

**The In'turns' – **Chapter Three: A Service to a Fan

**Disclaimer:** I own the characters you are unfamiliar with (Solaris, Amanda???, and enemy wrestlers/assailants). The situations documented are purely fictional (even though SummerSlam '07 did occur in New Jersey [and I had to sell my tickets to go back to college! Woe is me.). The others are all wrestlers from the WWE, and own themselves, or are owned by Vincent Kennedy McMahon.

**Author's Note:** Thank You for the review, Souless666. Even one review gives me enough courage to continue this sucker. Oh, and, yes, Batista doesn't become World Heavyweight Champ again until Unforgiven '07, I refer to him as a champ, just not The Champ. I may veer off the actual storyline, but that will come in future chapters.

Withouth further ado, Chapter Three. Thanks for reading!

_Flashback_

_One month prior to SummerSlam '07_

"It is 7:57pm here in New York City on July 17th, 2007. T104 FM is keeping it jumping tonight with our guests here at the studio, John Cena and Batista from WWE!" A peppy man with a squeak in his voice was all over the airwaves that night. Thousands of listeners had set their tuners to hear the 7 o'clock interviews with the two wrestlers. Quite a few laughs were had, especially at the expense of the radio disc jockey, who wasn't as avid a follower of wrestling as the fans who called in.

"Guys, how about we get these phone lines rumbling with another contest? You wanna tell them what they win if they're caller 104?" DJ Chau Chau spoke into the mic with a voice that held an unseen grin.

"Yo, yo, what's up, New York?! Start calling right now for your chance to win tickets to the hottest summer show you will ever see! Tickets to SummerSlam 2007!" John Cena's charismatic voice spoke loud, but clearly into the mic, actually initiating many fans to drop whatever they were doing that night to abduct their phones.

"That's right, and you will also get backstage passes to meet me, Batista, after the show and have a night on the town, my treat," Batista's voice was soft and yet excited. Whatever small percentage of fans, especially female, weren't already dialing frantically from Cena's announcement, Batista's was the one that hit the nail on the head.

"You heard it here, first, people! Be caller 104 at 1-800-346-0104, and you get tickets to Summerslam 2007 AND a night on the town with Batista! Oh, holy cow, we're already up to the last 4 callers?! You guys must want this really bad!" DJ Chau Chau gave a soft cackle and picked up one of the lines at random. Before he could even speak, a shrill scream sounded, followed by ear shattering feedback since the girl on the other line did not lower her radio while she was still standing in front of it with her phone. Cena winced visibly while Batista actually distanced himself away from the stereo and lowered his headset to his neck.

"OH! Nope, not working! Call back when you know how to use a phone!" And with that taunt, Chau Chau hung up on the hysterical girl and merely moved to the next caller. This one was calmer, but the urgency in the woman's voice was clear.

"H-hello? Am I caller 104?"

"Sorry, honey, but you missed it by 3. Try next time, eh?" Chau Chau showed a bit of sympathy for the caller, but still moved onto the next caller.

"Hello? Caller, are you there?"

There was silence coming from that end, a sign that the call may have been lost. The poor soul. Chau Chau hung up once again, and then motioned to John to be ready to talk as soon as he picked up another line. John blinked, and he was sure that there was one more caller who was 103, and he felt kind of bad to break the bad news to an expectant fan.

DJ Chau Chau flicked the switch, and Cena waited until heard the distinct screaming of several children who were obviously overjoyed that they thought their call had gotten through.

"Hello?! Oh my god, Batista, John Cena, oh my god, did we win?!" A girl, no older than 16 years old, sputtered into the phone, while a little boy could be heard in the background yelling something akin to Cena's catch phrase, "You can't see me!"

"Hi there. I'm sorry, kiddo, but you're caller 103. You should try again in the next hour, okay, stay on the line, and, we'll- we'll wire down a Chain Gang t-shirt for the both of ya. How that sound?" John said in a charming tone, not about to let two kids feel horrible about a contest. On contrary, the two kids didn't sound disappointed. In fact, they gasped into the receiver and both chirped a pleasant "Thank Cena!" before the line cut to the operator. Chau Chau was impressed with the display, where as Batista was already familiar with his friend's people skills.

"Now, now, Cena, you already have a lovely lady for your meet-and-greet, don't try and steal the show from Batista, now," DJ Chau Chau said with a coy smile. Before John could respond, Batista spoke into the mic with a thick voice that was full of laughter.

"He couldn't steal the show from me, if he tried," he said, with a sound of a challenge being issued. DJ Chau Chau even played the sound effect for a bell ringing sounding the beginning of a boxing match. John grinned and leaned back into his chair by his microphone and held his hands up in mock-surrender.

"Oh, I'm not trying to steal the Animal's thunder. Go ahead, man, talk to your fan!" And DJ Chau Chau took the cue to flip line 3. At first, all three men blinked as they heard a bit of mumbling from a young man over the phone. The volume had to be adjusted so that the men could make out what was being said.

"-man, this ain't gonna work, and you know it. I've never had any luck with contests... Yeah, its still just ringin'. It might just ring out…yeah, of course I'd like to meet 'im, but let's look at this realistically, aight? This is mostly aimed at teenage girls or preteen boys, both which I'm not. I'm just a punk goin' to community college. I'd probably bore the guy. And, even if I do win, I-I I'd probably freeze up at the sight of him. Y'know how BIG he is? …Do you hear an echo-oh crap!"

Cena fit his hand over his mouth to muffle the snickers coming from his mouth. DJ Chau Chau looked to the Leviathan for him to speak. Batista took that as a cue, and cleared his throat into the mic.

"Hello, there, caller. You're number 104. Do you know who this is?" Batista couldn't wipe the grin off his face as the young man on the other line fumbled with is words before speaking coherently.

"B-b-bah-b-batista. You're 'The Animal'. Oh, holy hell, this is unbelievable. It's an-an honor to be talking to you, sir," the boy, probably in his late teens, stated so eloquently for someone who was star struck. Whoever was talking to the young man chimed in a second later with, "Oh, snap, you got through! Hi, John Cena!" That earned him a chuckle and a grin he couldn't see.

"That's right. And what's the name of my guest for a night on the town after Summerslam 07?" Batista questioned suavely. There was a short pause, and the three men at the radio studio thought they had lost the call for a moment before they heard a loud curse and then some sort of shuffling happening on the other end of the line.

"S-sorry, sir! I just can't believe I got through! My name is Kyle, and I'm from New Jersey, um, Piscataway," Kyle finally spoke, and it was evident that he was trying hard to hide his stunned attitude, and losing the battle. There was more shuffling sounding from the caller's side, and the other who was with Kyle had less tact and showed how ecstatic he was for his friend.

"OH MY GOD, YOU'RE GOING TO SUMMERSLAM! Oh man, I gotta tell everyone. W-wait. HOW MANY TICKETS DO YOU GET?!" Even though the one talking did not have the receiver, he came in loud and clear. At this point, Batista and Cena couldn't help but laugh at the fanaticism. Even the DJ felt hesitant to break up the fan's exuberant chatter.

"I-I don't know…" Kyle's hesitant voice was heard in response to his companion's question. Cena waved two fingers silently to Batista, then some other hand gestures that the bigger man nodded to and regained his bearings before he spoke to the caller.

"Well, Kyle, you've actually got two tickets to Summerslam, so you can bring someone with you. I wonder who-" he was immediately cut off by more hollering and whooping of joy, this time coming from both Kyle and his friend. This happy setting must have boosted the ratings for the station, since it was full of so much energy.

"Hey, dawg, who's your friend, who's obviously coming with ya," Cena barely said between his laughter. Kyle stopped in his rejoicing to speak as calmly as he could manage.

"That's my brother, Cye. We're both big fans, but he's just crazy. I'm sorry bout this," Kyle chuckled joyfully, and honestly couldn't tell if he truly was sorry for their behavior. This was one of the coolest things to happen to him.

"Alright, then, Kyle, you and your brother will be taken by limo to the Continental Airlines Arena on August 27, 2007, and then, Kyle, after the show, you and me will chill out in New York, any place of your choice, and of course, my treat," Batista spoke into the mic and had to hold back a laugh at the background noise of Cye still celebrating, and Kyle letting out a rather girlish squeal as he was told the details.

"Kyle and Cye, you just won tickets to SummerSlam, so tell me, what's your favorite hit music station?!" DJ Chau Chau said charismatically as he usually did right before he went to commercial break.

"T104! BOOYEAH!" was the dual response yelled from the two boys before they were patched into the operator that would take their information.

_One Month Later, One Hour before SummerSlam '07_

"My God, man, you're takin' forever to get dressed! The limo driver said he'll be here in a couple minutes!" Cye's voice was exasperated and fidgety as the boy was at the base of the stairwell of the Michelino residence. He wore a John Cena Wrestlemania 23 WWE Championship Commerative t-shirt that he had obviously had worn several times over, by the faded paint in the design. He wore a pair of normal khakis and some good ol' Nike sneakers. He chose the casual, cool look that many fans were opting for as they went to the pay-per-view event. His onyx black hair was straight and about three inches past his ears and layered.

"Cye, you either help me find something to wear or shut ya mouth until the limo arrives!" Kyle sounded from upstairs in his room with a tone of panic. Cye raked his fingers through his hair lightly and sighed before jogging up the steps. He kicked the door to his brother's room opened and quirked and eyebrow at the sight before him.

Kyle stood facing his full length mirror with a stylish cow print, long sleeved shirt on with pearlescent cuff links. He wore black slacks tailored specifically for him. His own ink black hair was straight and flowed down past his shoulders to his mid back. He had black shoes that shined in the dim light of his bedroom. The young man's grey blue eyes widened when he saw his brother through the mirror and he waved a hanger that held another fancy dress shirt, other than the one he currently wearing.

"Which one should I use? The black with the red print, or the polyester blend cow print looking one?" Kyle said hurriedly as he looked to the shirts in question, obviously distressed. Cye blinked and started to make a choked sound between a laugh and a cough. Kyle narrowed his eyes at his brother. He should have _known_ better than to ask for _his_ opinion.

"Kyle, you forget, you ain't going on a date! You're goin' to SUMMERSLAM 07! How are you even going to feel comfortable in…that?" Cye chose his words none to carefully, but walked over to his brother and pulled the hanger from his grasp and threw it on the bed haphazardly.

"I'll be fine. I don't sweat a like prepubescent girl. I'm talkin' about you." That earned Kyle a glare that he waved off. "But I'm chillin' with Batista afterwards. **Batista**. I've never seen him in anything other than his ring gear, or a damn good suit. Not once. I think there was a rumor that he owns one pair of jeans. Just. One." Kyle knew he was overreacting, but he honestly had never won a trip to anything, even if it was only a thirty mile trip in state. And he certainly didn't want to look like a fool.

"Okay, what if you're right and I overdress? Oh god, what if I _underdress?!_ Cye, you gotta help me!"

"Wait, why don't you wear the Batista shirt and band you ha-oh, shit, I'm sorry, dude," Cye immediately clammed up when he saw the right eye of his elder brother twitch in a menacing manner. He had to be reminded of a horrible prank war they had waged against each other a while back, which lasted a good week, but ended with thoroughly shredded Batista paraphernalia left on his bed. Kyle was homicidal for weeks until he received an apology in the shape of Kyle axe-kicking his brother into their pool.

Boys will be boys.

"Alright, ya know what? I'm wearing this. I'll get me some new merchandise at the Arena. They have to be selling," Kyle said decisively and moved away from the mirror. Cye let out a long winded sigh of relief, but quieted as the sound of a horn honked from outside the home. The two brothers looked to each other wide eyed before they dove out the room, squeezed and pushed each other down the stairs and out of the house.

They froze and stared like deer in headlights as the limo driver exited the driver seat and walked around dignified to the right back passenger doors. The limo was a sleek black stretch Lincoln town car with a single black flag with the WWE symbol on the antenna.

"Mr.'s Kyle and Cye Michelino, your ride to the "Biggest Party of the Summer" awaits," the elder man spoke crisply and gestured for the two boys to enter. They needed no further invitation as they scrambled into the car and gasped simultaneously at the interior.

The inside was lined with green and blue neon lights, commemorating the SummerSlam official colors. The seats were polished black leather, and each side was dedicated to one particular champion, whether it was John Cena or Batista. The sound system was playing the theme song for the Pay Per View event, 'Whine Up' by Kat deLuna, with such vigor, the tinted windows looked as though they trembled on the doors. Kyle's eyes danced as he carefully took in the seat that he situated himself in the Batista side, which was decorated with Batista merchandise, including the very shirt and wristbands that he used to have. Kyle merely sighed and sunk into the seat happily.

Cye, on the other hand, was so jubilantly happy, he was literally rolling about the opposite seat, over the merchandise, and clutching the mock up WWE Championship spinner belt. Kyle faced his brother and looked at him bewildered.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm rolling around the stuff that's MINE. I'm marking my territory. See that Cena cap? It's mine! And the wristbands? Also mine!" Cye enunciated his explanation as he sprawled about with said merchandise on him. Kyle grimaced at the sight and sat back up in his seat.

"I suppose that's better than marking your territory the way animals do it. Did you at least bring the CD of music?" Kyle spoke as he slipped on the wristband underneath the sleeve of his shirt.

"Yeah, I'll pop it in," Cye mumbled after he nuzzled the merchandise for a few seconds before pulling out a regular CD-R disc out of his pocket. It was a wonder how that did not get crushed from all the movement he already did. He easily located the CD player/radio unit and put the CD in. The disc was a compilation of all the theme songs for the 2007 WWE Pay Per View events, starting with Wrestlemania 23's theme song, 'Ladies and Gentlemen' by Saliva.

The boys rocked out in the back of the limo, and the driver merely shook his head in disdain and wound the window up that separated him from them, before proceeding to the destination.

_Forty-five minutes After SummerSlam 2007_

As the arena was emptying out, Kyle bid a farewell to his brother in the stairwell. Cye was getting the same limousine home, but Kyle had to head towards backstage to meet with Batista. Kyle walked with a deliberately slow pace, and he started to get nervous. He never met a famous person before, and he couldn't believe that he was having second thoughts.

The backstage of Continental Airlines Arena looked just like the backstages of the various stadiums and arenas that RAW, ECW, and Smackdown! There was equipment everywhere, and Kyle almost tripped over some wires that were lying about. He kept straightening his shirt and slacks every couple seconds. He was practically tongue tied when he passed some of the gorgeous Divas that welcomed him and directed him in the right direction. The young man couldn't have looked any more flustered, nervous, and clumsy. Still blushing, he walked towards a black door which was most likely the guys' locker room.

Kyle paused in front of the door. He realized that he was acting like a wimp, being all nervous like this, but he couldn't help it. The poor guy would have been staring at the door for the next millennia if the person on the opposite side hadn't done him the honors of opening it.

Dave Baustista opened the locker room door, blinked, and looked down to the kid that stood like he facing the good Lord himself. The young boy was dressed rather well for someone who just attended a wrestling match, in a dress shirt and slacks, with what had to be Italian shoes. He immediately noticed the holographic badge that was clipped to his breast pocket that signified that he had backstage access.

Oh, so this was Kyle. Batista was just about to go meet him. Now, looking at the star struck soul, he was feeling two things: like he, himself, underdressed for the occasion (he was wearing a navy dress shirt and black slacks with a matching blazer jacket, which dwarfed on comparison to what Kyle was dressed in); and two, like this might be one of those fan meet-and-greets that he usually had. The ones where they do nothing but either drool or ask uninspiring questions that could easily be answered on the WWE website. Nonetheless, he enjoyed the fan service that he did, and he was going to make the best of this night.

"You must be Kyle Michelino?" Dave spoke in a jovial manner, hoping to receive a response. Kyle blinked several times before he nodded and found his voice, albeit a bit scratchy.

"Yes, sir. I am. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bautista, sir," Kyle would have continued with his polite mannerisms if it wasn't for Batista raising a large hand and placing it on his shoulder reassuringly. The wrestler shook his head but still had a smile on his face.

"Nah, none of that 'Mr. Bautista' stuff. I'd like to not be reminded of how old I am," Batista said with a chuckle. Kyle had to laugh at his own nervousness. He had to keep reminding himself that Batista, albeit a superstar, was a person, not a god.

"By the way, Kyle, nice threads. Not many come to a wrestling match profiling like that," Batista smirked, and Kyle could only blush as he looked down to review his clothing again. And the one thing that replayed in the young man's head was, _'Oh, damn it! I DID overdress! Should have never listened to Cye, that bastard…'_

Batista began to lead the way through the backstage corridors, and Kyle, like a blind fledgling, followed close behind. His attempt to strike up jovial conversation during their trek succeeded, and within the ten minute walk, Batista learned that Kyle was 23 years old, making him the elder of the Michelino brothers, an avid video gamer, with actual awards from competitions, and also that he used to be in the ROTC. Kyle, himself, learned that Batista's collection of lunchboxes was not just a rumor, and that the coveted 'Pepsi Optimus Prime' collectible, although not a lunchbox, has evaded Batista's grasp, but Kyle had come across it by sheer luck.

The two were chuckling as Kyle did a retelling of the mighty Michelino Prank War of May '07 by the time they reached the side exit where Batista's limo awaited them. Kyle was eager to see what kind of car The Animal strolled around in. Batista blinked and looked left and right, obviously expecting the limo to have been there and ready.

"That's odd. I thought we gave him enough time to get here," Batista muttered thoughtfully. Kyle looked in the opposite direction for any trace of a vehicle. He was starting to become wary of his surroundings when he realized that there was no one or thing other than the two men outside the exit. There was no reason for the area to be so barren after such an exciting event took place less than an hour ago. Both Dave and Kyle glanced upwards as the sky suddenly erupted with crisp streak of lightning, and booming thunder filled the air, yet no rain fell. The phenomenon occurred only three times, and then the evening sky cleared up as though nothing had happened. Kyle felt an awkwardness that made him tense up immediately, and the sounds of a church bell tolling solemnly in the distance certainly didn't help at all.

Before Kyle could voice his opinion, something ridiculously fast sped towards both Batista and Kyle, and managed to forcefully move left and right of the men while striking them square in the chest several times. Kyle fell into a lowered crouch and held his chest, reeling from the sudden attack. Batista, at the most stumbled back a foot or two, but otherwise stood tall like a brick wall. His eyes were narrowed, and his muscles had tensed visibly. Kyle noticed how the wrestler got into a stance that was ready to take on another attack.

"Lookit, lookit, lookit! It's Tarzan and Jane, standing so helpless and confused. Where is it coming from? Hm? Huh? Where?" A scratchy, jittery male voice spewed nonsense at a million miles a second. Batista and Kyle looked to and fro attentively, trying to figure out where the voice was originating from. They weren't given much time to deliberate when the speeding being came once more, from a completely opposite direction, and still managed to assault both men before darting away. Kyle brought his arms up in a defensive cross over his face, while Batista tensed and attempted to brave out the attack while trying to catch the gnat.

"Can't catch me! Can't catch me! You can't catch Hermes! Hahaha!" The hyper cackle seemed to echo from everywhere, making it damn hard to find out where it was coming from.

Kyle absentmindedly noted that the thing was a blur of blue and black, and was probably pretty short because it had to launch itself onto him to attack his upper body. Kyle looked a lot worse for wear than Batista, for he was panting heavily and brandishing several shallow cuts on his arms, chest, and legs that tore through his shirt and slacks, as well as a gash that went down the right side of his neck. It would have been deeper if Kyle hadn't effectively flipped the thing off from on his back.

Batista was getting worn down as well, albeit slower than his companion. He had visible scratches on his arms and chest, and the back of head was painted red from a particularly hard blow. Batista wasn't standing as sure as before, but he was still in a stance beside Kyle, almost as if he was going to ward off another attack on the kid with his own body.

"Dave…we're sitting…ducks here. Need t-to slow him…down." Kyle managed to string out between gasps of air. He blatantly ignored the river of blood that escaped the wound in his neck. He looked up to Batista, who looked to him in question.

"I'm down for anything you got. Are you sure, though?" The older man asked worriedly in reference to the kid's deteriorating state. Kyle didn't speak, but he gave an uncharacteristic feral grin and nod that was answer enough for Batista.

"Hah! A plan! C'mon, c'monc'monc'mon! Lemme see what you got! No one can catch Hermes!" With that, the dangerous blur emerged once again, this time closer to Kyle. Kyle supposed that he must have looked like the weaker link, and an easy kill, but that boy opted to prove this bastard how wrong he was.

In that second that the being raced towards the boy, Kyle managed slid around to whirl himself around and behind the attacking man, and drive his elbow with everything he had into what Kyle assumed was the guy's neck. He hit something that made a sharp cracking sound and made the speed demon actually lose his footing, stumbling forward, howling in apparent pain. Kyle gave one heavy kick to the faltering man's back, ejecting him towards Batista's general direction. Those two motions were enough to completely wind the injured kid, and he stood hunched over, but kept his eye on Hermes, just incase the man recovered from the counter-attack.

Both Batista and Kyle managed to get a glimpse of their attacker, finally, and neither of them was impressed at all. It was a small man, none too muscular, with a black and blue wrestling leotard that reminded Kyle of Rob Van Dam. He had spiked, azure hair with black streaks running through it. The only things that gave hint to why he inflicted so much damage was his nails, which were more like claws, and bloodied brass knuckles that he had on.

Batista took over where Kyle left off by grabbing the incoming offender by the lower torso in a crushing grab and hoisting him up. He pivoted on his right foot and turned around in a sharp 180 degrees, before dropping the assailant with infinite force on his spine, yet his head made contact with the asphalt first. It was like the spinebuster wrestling move that Batista often performed in the ring, except that this time, there was no safe fall. The maneuver was deliberately performed with deathly precision.

Such an action would have resulted in Hermes receiving a bloodied, cracked skull and being most likely paralyzed for life. However, Kyle witnessed the small man crash into the ground, and within the same second of hearing a crunch of flesh meeting floor, he saw the guy actually combust into gray ashes. The ashes wafted in the air, and some of it certainly got on Batista, but, he showed no concern for the mess. Batista practically glared hellfire at the ashes that dissipated, but said not a word, as if anything needed to be said.

Actually, Batista's face looked rather different when Kyle glanced his way in a double take. It looked more prominent and sharp in the cheekbones and brows. His mouth was slightly open from panting, and the young man was staring at the fangs that were peeking out. Kyle was sure as hell he didn't see Dave with gold contacts on before, either.

Poor Kyle would have said something to the man if he hadn't suddenly felt a massive wave of dizziness sweep over him, powerful enough for him to lose his footing and stumble to his knees. Kyle was no doctor, but even he did not think he lost enough blood to almost go into shock. He gasped and coughed heavily into his hand. As he glanced down, he watched as blood was still pouring out of his neck wound and dripped to the ground below, but in his hand was also blood that he hacked up. He didn't think that he broke anything, even if he felt incredibly sore. His body shook involuntarily in unwanted spasms, and suddenly it was very obvious what was wrong.

"Shit, poison," Kyle heard Dave breathe out before the large man rushed to his side. He blinked lazily as he noted that Batista's face looked just as normal as it did before. Kyle could easily chalk up the previous image to the poison giving him hallucinations. The young man couldn't even keep his eyes open as his body started to shut down without his consent. He attempted to speak, and it was a miracle that he even had the energy to open his mouth.

"My…bro-thh…er…tell h-h-him…"

Dave Batista did not need further explanation for the words, and he clasped his hands on the kid's shoulders, holding him from falling flat on his face. There was a saddened grimace etched on his face as he felt the life dwindling from the man in front him. With little effort whatsoever, Batista hefted the twenty-some odd year old man over his back, careful not to aggravate any of his injuries.

"Don't give up, yet, kid. It's not over, yet," was all Dave muttered as he got to his feet and turned about face and re-entered the arena to get some help.


End file.
